[Gig Review]: DETHFEST 2026 @ Corner Hotel, Melbourne (AU) 08/03/26.
Intro/Thanks To:
Richie Black Photography for another bout of stellar gig photography coverage. If you’re after more, good news - additional gig footage and RBP images coming soon via the Gallery of Brewicide.
Your Mate Bookings: Anthony Blayney and Co, a completely unsurprising wave of thanks given on the day by each and every artist is testament to your mad-dog skills. Thanks for facilitating our coverage!
The Artists (Duh!): With not one bad or even mediocre set observed the entire day, big sincere thanks for the fantastic entertainment on offer via Voidfall, Hybrid Nightmares, Anoxia, Abramelin, Disentomb, Carcinoid, Golgothan Remains and Allegaeon from all the way from the US of A! I mean it when I say it was tight across the board, well done dudes.
Punters: For a bunch of extreme-metal and beer hyperfixators on the sauce from 4pm til close, y’all did well on the good behaviour front from what I saw. Dig it!
The Corner Hotel: Staff for handling the above for such an amount of time. Hope we didn’t give anyone RSI from the desperate pint-pouring!
And finally - you, for graciously taking your attention-fractured time away from the algorithm-ocean to our little island of content!
Check out the links for each band throughout, then further down for the remainder. Want to see more extreme-metal fests or just festivals/gigs in your town? Remember to start small, start local - support the scene.
Peace, Love and Dethmas in March - Brady.
Credit: Melbourne Dethfest, via the official FB account.
We in Australia might not have the luxury of basking for days in some Midsomar perpetual-twilight glow (sans the murders) for festivals featuring Every Band Ever. We might not have the luxury of demographics that call for such festivities, particularly with the death and decline of big-ticket items (Big Day Out, Soundwave, Download, Parklife etc etc) and the harsh blowback rippling across the industry-pond post-COVID.
The proliferation of localised mini-fests across genres in Melbourne, likely in the wake of steeply escalating travel/logistics/other tour-related costs to here, is a warming sign. It’s sadly indicative of many more bands needing to second-guess touring here, as a financial option versus risk.
Nevertheless, we’ve been blessed with the machinations of Allegeaon’s Australian Tour 2026 slotting into Dethfest 2026 by virtue of having the same organiser. A deliberate pull from Anthony Blayney and Co behind Your Mate Bookings/Melbourne Dethfest, and a smart one. It’s a pretty well-established routine to have YMB mini-fests feature significant headliner sets, often with the opportunity to catch band members in the wild not long afterwards.
I’ve seen this sort of thing happening more often with alternative promoters, scenes, genres etc, and it’s pretty handy for prospective headliners. So stoked on a bands’ scene that you want to feature a full day of their stuff? Keen to do some A/B testing of support/headliner, small/large bill, etc? Lineups like this offer a different-but-not feel for both audience and headliner, and that’s perhaps why there was already a pretty sizeable showing for our first contender. In the cramped confines of the Small Stage (and I mean small), our journey begins with:
VOIDFALL (Melbourne, AU):
Opening up the day’s proceedings over by the very cramped, meagre plank of flooring dedicated to the ‘Small Stage’, we have Melbourne’s very own Voidfall. With a LinkedIn history of past/current bands ranging from Writhing and Hellspit to Catacombs, Monoliyth, et al, it’s of absolutely no surprise that the day begins with some well-articulated and polished death metal.
Despite propping themselves atop a deliciously buzz-sawed, HM-2 tyled Swedish death metal tone, guitarists Mark Hamono and Travis Ham were able to weave an intricate web of leads into the mix. There’s strong reminiscence stirring in my mind at this moment of discog back-tracking to early Katatonia, Dark Tranquillity, etc. Before long, though, bassist Daniel Green thumps the subsonic hard on queue with Adam Giangiordano, the pair adding serious gravitas and weight that only increases in intensity over time.
After asking the audience “Anyone know any ballads?” (to a resounding sarcastic “No!” from several audience members, self included), vocalist Vaughan Arnott continues to hell-spit his high-register, shriek-filled oration over their second track ‘Star Crusher’. It’s a verbal delivery that hovers somewhere between second-wave black metal, Gothenburg melodeath and guttural Old Nick gruffness in style/range, and it fits the bill snugly. With limited overall physical real estate, Daniel utilised the mic-stand, self and crowd to bring out an expressive performance, swaying like a drunken sailor eager to regale us with tales of Great Old Ones in the deep. The run through Swedish early-90’s harmonies into punky Entombed death-and-roll then out into a janky, off-kilter outro was a fun one too. And I hate running, except if it’s from the cops.
“Alright,” Vaughan announces suddenly at the second track’s conclusion, “Anyone here like fast stuff? Blastbeats?”
(A resounding nod and cheer from the audience. That one’s always an easy bone to throw to us death-metal dogs).
“Bad luck! This is our power-ballad - it’s about living and loving and hating the world. It’s about the dead, specifically fisting the dead. This songs’ called ‘Necrotica’-aaaaa!”.
I think Tony, Jason and Co would be less invested in this numbers’ slow, mournful lead guitar, but they’d get a good kick out all the redirection into cruisy blues-laden leads and big stompin’ thicc-riffs. Filing off the tracks’ edges with slow, measured arpeggiated bass/guitar arpeggio, the band receives an even greater whoop-whoop of applause.
Arnott announces “We’ll leave you alone, Hybrid [Nightmares] up next. This one’s for Croydon - 3136 for life!” before their fourth offering. This one’s a strong, solid veer into the more death-thrash oriented framework laid down by bands such as At The Gates, The Crown and The Haunted. The versatility of the songcraft is impressive, and they’ve managed to stitch such a style in amongst some ploddier death-doom and blistering blackened runs.
(And look, I’ll grant you a bit of postcode-based pride, but everyone knows the One True Superior Postcode is actually #2452. What’s up, Sawtell/Toormina homies? I’m right, right? Anyway, geographical digression over).
‘Legacy in Fire’, complete with guttural Australian-accented spoken-word (trust me, it’s more jarring in our verbiage than Euro/American style) carries simplistic refrains such as “I was born with the Devil in me”, to rickety, splintering arpeggiation and tremolo. There’s a brief pause, a few knowing looks and hoots between crowd members, then a brief cymbal flourish before the ante kicks up big-time. Cleverly saving the most blistering for last, the full throttle of a rhythm-section freed from restraint sees the whole band (and a good portion of the crowd) lurch forward in unifying headbang-fever.
Earning themselves a hearty applause and a chance for social distancing, the ambient and metaphorical vibe-temperature feels suitably warmed up.
Good thing that’s the case, to be honest.
‘Cause up next, we have something rotten from the state of Victoria, and it’s not just my stank-ass ADHD crust-punk armpits.
Hybrid Nightmares (melbourne, AU):
Bilious and bileful (ten thousand thundering typhoons, Tintin!), Hybrid Nightmares are another part-of-the-furniture act like Carcinoid. That is to say, there’s a massive chance if you’re local to Melbourne/Victoria and here for gigs, you’ve likely caught these guys at some stage.
Heck, we only reviewed them a month ago when they supported Daysend for the Melbourne leg of Revisiting Severance (see here for that gig review if desired). Whilst the few punters peeling off to the bar or outside for fresh nicotine-infused air might include similar folks among that flock, the Corner Hotel congregation was sizeable and dense by this stage. Vocalist Loki utilised this packed conflagaration of headbangers to his advantage, stomping and stalking the comparatively wider Main Stage whilst crooning, howling, barking and shrieking in glistening corpse-paint/accoutrement.
Looking as freshly Norwegian snap-frozen on either side, guitarists Bentley Hodges (lead) & Lily Parker (rhythm) peel off an endless firestorm of tremolo, punctuated only by the odd Scandinavian-coded arpeggio flourish, blazing solo or palm-mute heavy chug riffs. Whilst a bit difficult to discern in the mix at times, Josh Ristrom’s nimble bass-work helped adapt adhesive coating to the relentlessly bashed, pelted drumkit of one Adam Chapman.
The oratory shift between Loki’s blood-curdling chant of “Bleached! Bones! Black! Magick!” to the cheerfully-Aussie salutations and introductions? It’s just classic modern Aussie metalhead cinema, never gets old and serves to reiterate we’re just larrikins here to have fun after all. Settle down, dudes in Emperor shirts LARPing as eldritch-knight warlocks. “Fuck your soul, and fuck your pride!” are just some of the characteristically-black-metal edgy lines thrown out, but lyrically there’s a strong inclination towards alchemy, mysticism and dark arts. As the band weave a third track from ethereal black metal into a bludgeoning death metal breakdown, the crowd finally properly erupts into a stint of madness.
The strong Hoth/Dissection melodicism intertwined through the black craft of ‘Heralds of Oblivion’ worked quite well alongside the throaty vocal roars from both guitarists, building in a triplicate chant of the tracks’ title and some classic raised-fist oi-oi-oi arm-swings to the same. Trill-heavy soloing tapers out to slower leads reminiscent of our days’ first entrants, which is an interesting contrast aside punky, Darkthrone styled riffage.
“Come on Melbourne!”, Loki screams with more than a hint of frustration, “Open up this motherfucker and show me what you got!”. The rallying-call finally breaks the levee with an until-now fervent few being joined by a small legion of faithful black metal apostates. The madness continues through into the fifth rendition of their set, deliberately scaling up the intensity from will-they-won’t-they into full gnarling blast.
‘Humanity Abandoned’ does what it says on the tin, abandoning all semblance of safety for some Kerry King-ass abuse of both the top string and lower end of the neck, peeling off in a scathing wall of blackened death. “Fuckin’ come on, Melbourne! Come on, Melbourne - everyone’s gotta go sometime!” is the clarion-call required to elevate through to a searing rendition of Woeful Inertia opener ‘Litany of The Astral Servant’. One of my personal favourites from the band, and the appeal is wide-ranging if the clamour on metaphorical-curtain call had anything to say about it.
My head full of a mixture of delicious black-and-death goodness from those sporting the stage so far, I realise we’re only a few bands in. Sometimes, my mid-thirties kicks in at these kinds of events and there’s a moment of “ah, shit” when you realise you’re only a few bands deep. Dethfest is one that just hits different for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m in the company of much similar; folks who’ll espouse their love to others about endless reams of blast-heavy XYZ bands that mostly garner a response akin to “yeah they’re good, but I just can’t stand it being so heavy/fast all the time/I need some groove, you know?”.
Well, perhaps said persons might be a little too busy cradling their snug lil’ Sleep Token blankie, but if not I think they’d even be able to get right on down to….
ANOXIA (SYDNEY, AU):
I’m finishing this gig review whilst back in the Motherland, the Mid North Coast of NSW. Thus, along with my relief in being able to order a POTATO SCALLOP (not cake, you goddamn Vic heathens), I can revel in some home-state pride. Speaking of revelry, these guys really to love ah, Revel in Sin.
Analysing a set from Sydney’s Anoxia really does feel like an exercise in ‘well, duh!’. They’d not only won me over instantly from their performance supporting Atheist last year at The Leadbeater in Richmond (Oh? A link to that gig review right here? How con-veee-nient!), they’ve since been on our podcast (conveniently-placed interview link here!) and I’ve followed along with Palpatine levels of keen interest since.
What drews me like an Amott Brothers moth to a chunky, soupy, snarling Bloodbath-ian flame is just that. And more. Sure, the whole “let’s do late 80’s/early 90’s death metal but in 2026” death metal trend is one beyond the point of oversaturation, but that doesn’t mean there’s gold in them thar hills, cowboy.
Perhaps I’ve imbibed too much progressive death in my time, ‘cause I’m almost physically jolted by the sheer speed and brevity through which the dudes outright tear through and past ‘M.N.W.’. An abrupt finish, a pregnant pause of bewildered silence and room of hooting, hollering death metal cats seems to indicate this sentiment isn’t isolated.
And yeah, I’m a nerd, what of it? I love me some thirty-minute-plus epic progressive death metal sojourns. Even a pseudo-intellectual autist like myself can deny the raw, primal satiety and dopamine-tickling which results from a battery of short, sharp punches to the ear canals. And these blokes ain’t here to copulate with spiders.
Joey Scott moves between wolverine-like prowl and hydraulic-lifted headbangs, all a mass of hair and beard as he belts low-register deep growls from some abyssal plane. Equally rupturing on similar frequencies, James Taylor cuts through the buzzsaw-guitar din with nimbleness, dexterity and all manner of fun bassist-flourishes (one/two-hand tapping, chords, arpeggios, etc), providing both sonic boom and sharp rhythmic clacks and clangs. Not to be outdone in the rhythm stakes, Marco Alvarez flaunts everything from crusty d-beat and punk-rock floor-stomp to blastbeat and a range of fills.
Looking like the busiest bastard in a very musically busy band, and standing primarily in a staunch upright pose, guitarist Elias Niahos looks comparatively peaceful. Calm as a Hindu cow, if that bovine stood atop a Nepalese plateau bashing out every single trick, fill and lick in the death metal dictionary. Said cow seems to have also been hanging out with Fredrik Thordendal a lot, as the soloing takes a jagged, jazzy, semi-atonal delivery of its’ own.
I’m less concerned with giving you guys the play-by-play for this one. I could Setlist.fm it and say yes, sure, tracks played included ‘Darker Forms of Knowledge’, the absolutely scathing ripper ‘Rule By Cold Steel’, title track of the Languish in Suffering EP, ‘From Flesh To Ash’ or brow-beaten hyperspeed closer ‘Blood On The Altar’, among others.
What’s important about these guys, I argue, is their capacity to meld a pretty intense palette of death metal influences to one fold. Being taken from Deicide and Atheist through to Dew-Scented, The Crown and more, all on a technically-proficient and high-energy platter, is a winning combination for self, band and audience. Unsurprisingly, the end outcome on the sets’ conclusion is less a dull roar and more a sonic-boom.
Melbournites can hang as many ‘we’re better than Sydney’ stars on their shingles as they like (they’re factually wrong where beaches and weather are concerned, but I’ll pass the rest), but no one denies a good interstate band one hell of a hoedown when the riffage is good.
Anoxia’s grace of the small stage is an intense one, and there’s a sense of building momentum that isn’t just manifest by way of the thickly-choked confines of Corner Hotel right now.
As patrons jostle for a total amount of Corner bar-line space as the crew quarters of a destitute Soviet oil tanker, Victoria’s finest and heaviest get set to blow all and sundry away.
Nice job, puppers, but the Big Dogs are back in town and there’s nary a pitbull that can come close to the fierceness of:
abramelin (melbourne, AU):
Abramelin are as much an oddity on the live front as they absolutely also aren’t.
Let me explain. You’ve got fitness-freak Simon Dower fronting the band, a similar murderous prowl to his gait as Mr. Scott from the above band prior. “Short-haired frontmen in my death metal?!”, some might exclaim to themselves privately - right before the man pounces, gesticulates, spits and snarls a gruesome combination of minced dog-bark and capillary-bursting high-range shrieks.
You’ve got Rob Mollica, contrastingly, just hanging out like a Dad who knocked off for a few pints after a job at the worksite. Man’s animated and lively, sure, but overall he’s sporting a cheery grin and content to bob his head whilst surveying the audience. Perched primarily on the foldbacks, he’s in diametric opposition both to the serpentine frontman-snake crouched nearby and the goateed head of gilded Victorian riff-lord Matt Wilcock somehow headbanging to every goddamn double-kick of the set. Guess all that time plying riffs for The Berzerker, Werewolves and the like have given him some new, supra-human headbang muscle-fibers.
And like, dude…. do I really need to introduce the Haley brothers? As monolithic and destructive as the total-sum output shearing from PA and speaker alike Joe is every bit the technical wunderkind of blistering riffery and lead-work we’ve come to know and expect from his tenure in Psycroptic and million others. Bro-ing out behind him is a fantastic study in genetics, David committing what is without question the most serious and relentless tirade of drumkit abuse for the whole evening.
Shredded Screamer, Zen Hat Guy, Werewolf Goatee Man and the Tech-Death Mario Brothers come together with devastating alchemical precision, a heady brew concocted via with multiple decades of extreme-metal druidism across many great bands. Minimal sword-sharpening is either needed nor desired as the first of many serrated, gut-ripping barn-burners tears away with a life of its’ own. It’s an expeditious beast, and Dower’s gruff barks might as well’ve been mating calls to those outside finishing off a dart. Certainly felt loud enough inside to be heard from at least Collingwood…
After a rowdy beer-drenched applause, Simon gives a perfunctory thanks to the audience before announcing “It’s time for a trip to ‘The Gory Hole’!”. Nice one, Dad. ‘The Gory Hole’ is as shtick as many other Abramelin titles, but aside from those and some lyrics? That’s where the shlock factor ends. It’s a serious, rampaging beast of a tune, Simon hanging half his frame over the pit leering maniacally, before stalking into a corner like death metal Gollum. The pulverising mix of kick-heavy breakdowns, push-pull tempo dynamics and searing intensity propels the pit of organic pissed-mosher slurry.
‘Full Gore Whore’ leaves even less to the imagination. It’s a torrid, scathing downpour of virulent blasts and tremolo one instant, a bouncing lead-filled chowdown on heavier power chord-driven riff meats the next. Simon’s switching between low and high vocal registers whilst sneering, stalking and gesticulating just adds an overall vibe of pure, malevolent fun. That’s if the circle-pit and front-row headbangers are to be believed. Things only escalate in the run towards the finish-line, with ‘Spiritual Justice’ serving as a death-metal NRL-scrum manifest by the ever-widening circle-pit before the band.
Simon gives ample time prior to launching into an absolutely schathing rendition of ‘Spiritual Justice (NekromaniaK)’ with both hearty praise of Corner Hotel as it rapidly approaches a 30th anniversary, but also encouragement to continue attending shows such as these if we wish to see similar in future. It’s a real threat, what with cost-of-living-crisis, venue closers etc, and the fierceness with which the statements’ made is mirrored heartily with applause by the audience.
The final one-two kidney punches of ‘Grave Ideals’ and ‘Human Abbatoir’ seem deliberately selected both for their uptick in savagery and mosh-ready, breathable breakdown riffage. By the end of the bands’ set (to soaring and venue-wise applause), the trickle of brow-beaten pit gangsters above appreciative hoots, hollers and screams signifies a job damn well done.
Interlude (That Is Probably Uneccessary But Hey, It’s Me And My Need To Overanalyse Things (Obviously)):
As a demographic of people not exactly as You Damn Young Kids And Your TikToks or Whatever in composition, the days’ moshes and beer sloshes are starting to take on an… animated effect. Most of us aren’t fresh into legal drinking age, and whilst tolerance is definitely a thing in this scene, we’re not exactly hopping about doing cartwheels on our eight-plus pint.
It’s low-key a moment I get excited for at a gig or festival if I’m not the one half-cut by this point myself, one where the self-monitoring part of the collective frontal-lobe’s been switched off by beers, moshpit concussions or indeed the shakeup of the cerebrum by so many hours headbanging. Funny stuff starts happening. The heckles get cheekier, the bro-hugs more impassioned, the trips out the front for another dart just that bit more urgent, et cetera.
I’ve neglected thus far to raise something in each bands’ set, and I want to raise it here.
A bit of a broken record, but one can’t help notice that Anthony Blayney and Co from Your Mate Bookings always get a shoutout, thanks, some sort of positive and personalised appreciation from each band on the day. Every band, every time. You can’t say the work hasn’t been done to make the whole lineup feel important and accommodated, and it’s great two-way respects paid.
Not only that - the fact we’re this many beers/nose-beers/whatever you naughty kids are up to into the evening and there’s been pretty much no aggression, fights or other nattering bullshit, is props to both the venue, organisers and bands in attendance, as well as the crowd. Another broken-record trope, but hats off to the staff for putting up with the Passchendale/Normandy/Long Tan that is any metal all-dayer. Brave souls, you get a hat-tip from me!
I’m just putting this little intermission here to also say great work, Dethfest audience. Put a bunch of I’m-the-next-Seth-Sentry kids or dick-measuring hardcore bands into the same room with this much testosterone, guaranteed you’d be seeing a lot more aggressive fireworks.
This in and of itself is just such great antithesis to the trope that our scene (local/international), our music, our way of life is inherently hateful, depressive or a risk to our mental health. From the cheers, smiles, camraderie and fun, I’m seeing nothing but the opposite. Coulda been the EKKA or a trip to the zoo with family in any other context, but right here’s metal family.
Wishing I could skull-drag the Reagans and their PMRC pearl-clutching dickhead friends from the 80’s to right now as proof, my meandering thought-train is disrupted by a sudden cacophony. A deep rumble of Jungle Rot-ian death metal from the local lords of sludgy, nasty, putrefaction-drenched death.
The band in question:
carcinoid (Melbourne, AU):
Another band that is such a regular fixture on various lineups in the local scene that they feel semi-requisite, Carcinoid are one hell of a hardworking band when it comes to live presence. They’re at many shows, they’re off to places like Blacken Open Air, they’re around us and in us like midchlorians and The Force.
So yeah, myself and a huge portion of those in attendance ain’t attending their first Carc’ rodeo. You wouldn’t have guessed that from the crowd response, however. Today, the howling and roaring throughout the set feels more like the caterwauling of our simian ancestors, and that’s by-and-large I believe due to the sheer nastiness of what’s on offer.
No, guys, for real. Yeah, yeah, death metal scary to the average normie. But these guys are spaced-letter-word-time n a s t y.
Thus, the perfect addition to the bill! We needed a reminder of the grime. A grime-minder? These guys are grime minders.
It’s heinously brutal, mash-and-taters sledgehammering death metal, a soup of muck scooped straight from the most fetid mudflats of Tampa Bay, Florida. Opener ‘Mired in Decay’ exposits this throughout, a heady, thick mixture ending in ways more akin to the Pokemon Muk getting melted by heat-rays than a song’s conclusion. Always a funny juxtaposition when a band plays something gnarly, crusty, gnarly and brutish, and it’s received with such cheerful crowd fervour. We’re definitely an interesting lot, us metalheads. Certainly not normal, that’s for sure. More to my aforementioned interlude point.
And whilst they may not be self-masturbating stage side in an attempt to outdo Anata or Necrophagist, the Carcinoid vibe sticks out like dogs’ balls even on the current lineup. Yes, yes, I’m aware this is ‘Dethfest’ and the general agreement is “Play some freaking death metal, y’all”, but there’s a griminess to these guys that always sticks out like a sore, pustulated, rotting, maggot-ridden thumb.
Like others off the setlist, ‘Tyrannic Cantations‘ gives zero fucks. Straight out of the Obituary school of ‘Don’t Care’. Whilst others are concerned with scale-balancing the precarious blend of dual-guitar assault in clarity, Az and Nathan have no self-consciousness about squeaky-clean their unrepentant riff-and-tremolo barrage is. While bassists the world over pine and argue over how to roll back, punch through or otherwise have their subtle tones heard, Jess is out here hammering the shit of the low-end like it’s a mouth-breathing Redditor creep that just asked her for a playdate. Perhaps clearest of all, even above the frog-like warbles and cat screeching of possessed vocalist Tim, skinsman Michael pushes the entire grind-sausage along with both expansiveness and flat-footed stick-abuse.
Taken as a whole, they’re a sewage-strewn apostasy in the day and age of AxeFX II, and methinks that’s a huge part of the appeal. Get yourself nice and dirty now, wash it off for the headliners later.
“Thanks for joining us!” is the briefest of speeches as Michael’s oratory pierces this sludgy veil, barking like undead dogs in a coal bunker for ‘Led To The Worms‘. An amp bricking itself (unsurprising, considering the relentless abuse) is no match for this one, identified in the opening measures as “A real stomper - get your boots up!”. Boots and heads are up aplenty, the Small Stage copping some real action and activity.
‘Suffering Reborn’ then apparates out of nowhere like a shit-stained apparition, leaving ghostly death metal ectoplasm yuckiness everywhere. Our frontmans’ been possessed by this poltergeist, it seems, rapidly coiling, writhing and seizing like an induced seizure in real time. A broader and more palatable progression of power chords dials in the punk factor, and things really devolve into madness for anyone lacking in spatial awareness up to oh, say, five rows back at least?!
Flattening things out a bit further into their basal elements, ‘Paved With Gravestones’ begins with comparatively almost apologetic mid-tempo pace. We know better, though, and our whoopin’ and hollerin’ escalates with that build towards riff-climax. The sheer freaking poetry that is multiple band members arching their backs like possessed cats, snapping and bending in near unison with the rows of pit-snakes in front? Man, that’s a clear mental image right there.
Like a wet paste of aural gruel, the fifth track seeps over into ‘Gut Rot’ like a bowl of rancid, irradiated corpse con carne. Slotted right into the setlist where things are feeling a little familiar, verging on also-ran, this one wreaks all kind of stylistic and tempo-based havoc, pushing and pulling with a lurch not unlike being trapped in a washing machine.
“Let’s raise some ruckus!” is the whole of Michael’s next pointed pontification, and the guttural belch with which ‘Strangulation’ is announced as the title is premonition enough. A well-picked closer, the track frantically tugs at mid-tempo death-doom, flat-stick OSDM and pure punk attack.
The crowds’ beside themselves at this point, and I think Carc’ might take it for rowdiest Small Stage flock of the day, even.
Well done, crew.
Send ‘em packing, but leave at least something in the tank for our next brutal Brisbane bludgeoners in:
disentomb (brisbane, AU):
From my time living on the Sunshine Coast (2007-2012) and later Brisbane (2008 - 2017), I honestly don’t think I saw any one Queensland band as many times as I did Disentomb. They might even be my most seen Australian band ever alongside the relentlessly tour-addicted Tasmanians in Psycroptic. For the above period of time, dudes were inescapable and ever present on any and all kinds of extreme metal lineups.
If we’re talking solid work ethic, vocalist Jordan James is an embodiment. Still the menacing beefcake of a frontman as the early days, still writhing about the stage Donkey-Kong punching the absolute hell out of the air like it owes him money, still employing “cunt” in adjective/verb/noun/descriptor form like any good Queenslander - and still a glass-gargling brute of a death metal vocalist. As consistently feverish and violent in his delivery as the first time I saw ‘em. No retirement plan just yet, mate?
I think a point of contention for some is James’ fairly consistent range of low-register barks, bellows and gruff bellows. There’s little variation on the vocal theme, but I like to think of it similar to how I view (and enjoy) Jens Kidman of Meshuggah live. The endless verbal battering acts as an additive percussive instrument, just one more angle from which the crew lash out with a brutal, unrelenting assault.
Spurred on from the first wave of agape mouths, James stares out with that perpetual-pissedoffness and sports-coach enthusiasm combo of old. “This next one’s called ‘Pyres Built From Their Severed Wings’ - Melbourne, open up this pit, you cunts!”. We’re all secretly some shade of bogan/Ocker in this room - we listen to extreme-metal, for Mutant Christs’ sake - and thus the pit happily obliges as one single, increasingly boozed-up mass of, well, cunts. (We’re a family-friend blog here, huh?).
Moving on and engaging in seriously dextrous fret gymnastics for the role, Adrian Capalletti’s playing is coupled with something of metal bass-monkey reverence - that freaking TONE, dude. It’s just chef’s-kiss clacketty-clack, dialled in to sound like hundreds of compound fractures across a set. The fact there’s both stupidly-fast hammer-on/pull-off riffing and clever snide little arpeggiated bursts makes the whole thing feel like a meatier rhythm guitar. Jake Wilke’s command of the fretboard is never to be underestimated either, wavering in sweeping arcs across dissonant, black-metal-coded arpeggios before churning out riff-barrages so fast, you’d swear his hands never hit the frets. In tandem, their command of the fretboards look like octopi fending off a swarm of wasps.
Don’t even start me on friggin’ Henri Sison. Dude’s a weapon and an entire bands’ review to himself. Filling every available nanosecond of breathable room with a clattering cacophony of blasts, smashed cymbals and truncheoned toms, dude barely lets up for an instant the entire set. The only drummer of the whole festival who seemed to have an equally feverish time filling silence was that of our Abramelin Haley brother. Who needs a cardio workout ever when you’ve got this guys’ practice regimen?!
And so, fresh off a few minutes gyrating and swatting invisible skyward stage-bees, Jordan queries a dumbstruck audience with the old fave - “Having a good time tonight Melbourne?!”. We all throw tomatoes, storm out of The Corner and are never, ever sarcastic, specifically not in gig reviews. Of course we cheer!
“Then turn this fucking pit around and smash a cunt.”
Nothing’s going to encourage the application of force to one of our favourite Australian expletives like one of their most readily identifiable and slamming, mosh-ready numbers, via ‘Vultures Descend’. Holy irradiated unholy Christ that thing is damn heavy, and the sheer obliterative force propelled by the track’s earlier half has most of the audience stun-locked - including ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing Disentomb AGAIN; how many times is this?!’-thinking dudes like myself. Go listen to the track if you want an idea of the pit-carnage that ensued. Total bedlam directed by some peak brutal slamming death metal riffery.
“How sick is tonights’ lineup? I just watched Carcinoid, they were fuckin’ wicked!” proclaims the frontman in much more succinct reviewer style than my over-inclusive writing can afford. Onya mate, cheers for the assist.
Sure, I prattle on at the best of times. Hence why I’ll leave the rest to figments of your imagination - ‘Cystic Secretions’, ‘Purity Severed By The Antideluvian’ (‘nother personal fave) and others, all blending into a mix of slamming death metal with an appreciably tight, harsh, nimble layer of technicality and fury. The crowd were hooting like metal barn owls at the sets’ conclusion, but there were more than a few bludgeoned and dumbstruck brains in there too.
Hope those folks had a lie-down and a nice cup of tea, ‘cause the penultimate support act was nowhere near done in doling out fresh, scathing provisions of interstate extremity.
Creeping from the crypts of Sydney and lashing out like a gang of drow youths on cocaine in the Underdark, our penultimate act for tonight blasts forward:
golgothan remains (sydney, AU):
I’ll grant that yeah, sure, we’re at an event called Dethfest. I’ll pay that, but any great extreme-metal lineup is doing itself a disservice without at least one quality black metal act. Enter Sydney’s Golgothan Remains, launching out of the gates like Cerberus with a fistful of California Reaper chilis crammed squarely up the backside. With some haunted and gruff spoken word from corpse-painted vocalist Matthieu Van den Brande, jagged chordal shapes seeping from the fretboard of M. (Guitar), it’s not long before the pair are joined by the blasting rumble of rhythm-section duo (Adam on Bass/drummer A.) as our first rendition for the night launches into hellish, death-infused black metal.
A minimalist, very black-metal-frontman’s simple utterance of “Thank you, Melbourne” from our rasp-riddled vocalist, and it’s off to the blast-beaten races. I’m reminded of both Ulcerate and Ashenspire in this moment, with strong dissonant death-metal arpeggiation sluicing rapidly between what is otherwise a hellish, unrepentant spire of blistering blackened tremolo. It’s a fantastic reminder that whilst not as omnipresent in the metal-media landscape as more traditional death metal, our country of convicts is still packed with plenty o’ the nasty blackened end of the music spectrum.
The names might be your usual mildly impersonal titles for a black metal band, but in reality their stage-show was well-engaged. No aloof chain-smoking mall goths in tow, here. The Australian drawl of spoken-word sections adds its’ own creepiness, a bent twang that reminds you why Wolf Creek feels more off-putting set in our own outback than say, Nevada. Our vocalist creeps and stalks the stage in a malicious manner not unlike that of Anoxia prior, unfurling gesticulated hands as though weaving spells over a crowd trying their absolute Sunday best (bless ‘em) to keep up with the relentless cacophony imposed by both amp and drumkit. As though to punctuate my point retroactively, Matthieu raises the mic-stand in proud black-metaller adulation, the posture earning huge applause as incendiary blastbeating brings another fiery number to a close.
“Thanks to all the bands who came out and played and to all of you seeing us on a Sunday - Go Collingwood!” is the localised dialect uttered briefly before we’re smacked upside the head with more seething, scathing blackened death. Super discordant arpeggios and deliberately off-kilter riffing mingled deliciously with some chuggier moments for breathing (and pit) room, acting as a nice digestive between what’d otherwise have been incessant black metal battering.
Much like Disentomb just before them, Golgothan Remains elected the no-BS option for the final two tracks. Sending things off in a spiders’ web of intricate and evil-chord arpeggiation, the continuation of a more measured pace interspersed with blast was left the absolute friggin’ frig home (frig, I tells ya!) with ‘Vile Blasphemy’. Holy unhinged Christ-punchin’ imps, Batman! I felt this one right in the soul, the lumbering death-doom intro aided by the band facing away from the crowd, whirling in unison as one of the nights’ fastest and most furious slabs of extreme metal scorched skin from those in attendance. As if to send a message to our headliners, both band and audience locked hard into fastidious headbanging, Matt’s final drawled screams earning their own counterpart from us as we send Australia packing in style.
And finally, friends, your sojourn has reached the pinnacle. You’ve taken several trips to the bathroom, voided your bowels, sighing in frustration in the meantime as you open the tab back up.
Rest easy, fellow metalhead, but also maybe get more fibre in your diet.
We’re finally up to the Big Kahunas.
All the way from the home of killing Kenny, it’s our technical melodic death metal mastermind headliners.
On the Big Stage, all the way from Fort Collins, Colorado, USA, it’s the Main Event iiiiiiiiiin:
allegaeon (Fort Collins, Col (USA)):
‘Refraction’ is defined as ‘The turning or bending of any wave, such as a light or sound wave, when it passes from one medium into another of different optical density’.
Couldn’t have picked a better descriptor for an opening salvo in Allegaeon’s impressively-technical, deliciously melodic and hyper-engaged, energetic set.
Not when Ezra Haynes is an endless ball of hyperactive energy, waving his arms in flourishing arcs, prowling in crouched position, jumping between foldbacks, squatting next to his bandmates, hovering limbs in time with lead-guitar sweeps.
Not when Jeff Saltzman offers an imperious view from behind, a kaleidoscope of human limb motion as he wrangles both blasting fury and all manner of jazzy, Alarum/Atheist styled Latin-inspired beats and fills.
Not when Michael Stancel and Greg Burgess crank out more riffs in one song than many have across discographies, sporting plywood eight-stringed planks and swirling intricate leads, arpeggios and solos without effort.
Not when, underpinning all the insanely-technical output of his peers, bassist Brandon Michael stands on his own with additional strings, punchy phrasing and watertight, booming lines to tie the room together.
Tied together the room was, completely silent until the first tracks’ conclusion to rapturous applause. I myself am offering a heartier vocal roar of appreciation than expected, the lethargy of a whole day running about suddenly quashed.
Imagine an energised and animated Inferi/Inanimate Existence onstage, and you’ve got the bands’ seemless transition into second track ‘Chaos Theory’ (from recently released LP The Ossuary Lens) somewhat pegged. If you’ve never caught these Fort Collins natives live, you’d be forgiven for thinking they’re a bunch of listless nerds - progressive and technically-proficient metal often invokes the stoic, frowned-face furrow of consternation on the live front (and rightfully so). But not these guys, no way, no how.
The sheer aptitude with which cascading sheets of lead sweeps/flourishes and dime-turn tempo changes punctuate the track are dizzying, but not left without seriously hefty riffing to keep that frenzied pit very much alive. The gesturing, beckoning and fist-pumping to the front few rows by Haynes and Co incites the circle-pit into a vaguely-circle-shaped mass. I really dug Ezra’s extension into lower-register range growls on the new material, and his prowess as a subsonic boomer alongside Brandon is on full display here.
“Melbourne! Mother-fucking Dethfest!”, Haynes roars to a resounding applause, before introducing next number and personal Ossuary fave of mine, ‘Driftwood’. Whether it’s my own confirmation bias, the sheer excitedness of the crowd or the exposition-free chop and change between tracks, something feels intensified in both speed and hype from both sides of the barrier. The multi-vocal harmonies of the bombastic chorus may be cheesy in other contexts, but here they just add to the progressive-metal grandiosity and technical pomp. Ezra’s vocals seem to take on a sneering, caustic grit as though inflected by the black-metal refrains of tonights’ penultimate act, once again demonstrating growth in vocal range that isn’t confined to the studio.
The excited wailing, booming and unanimous venue-wide applause feels louder than the band who just played, and these US prog-tech geeks offer the cheekiest of band-wide grins in thankful repose.
… and that’s when the proverbial really hits the fan for any idiot left dumbly staunch enough to still do the folded-arms stoic thing, anywhere near the front. ‘The Swarm’ does what it says on the audience tin, a blistering assault with the death metal knob cranked up to full on a high-speed intro.
The sudden death-metal-ness of it all emboldens the pit, Haynes screaming in kind with the command “Motherfuckers, this is circle-pit time. Circle! Circle! Circle!” whilst gesticulating the preferred shape in question. A stream of metal automatons braves the body-shape, more and more joining as the rabid, stabbing snare complements endless histrionic sweeps. It’s a blood-rushing mix of elevated tempo, ridiculously flashy guitar leads and endlessly-pastiched riffs, feeling almost too much to bear at times but easing back into a nice ol’ chug at the right time, every time.
Vocal cords surely must be straining in the audience at this point - I know mine was - as we collectively just cannot help but boost our response to this absurd level of technical skill (and fun) in motion. ‘Technical death metal’ isn’t always synonymous with ‘rowdy and energetic wherever you are in the room’, but tonight it surely is.
And whilst excitement is traded in ample amounts, it’s catharsis on offer next for ‘Wake Circling Above’: “You guys know your circles, right? You’re fucking coming with me. Everything you hate comes out during this song!”. An invitation for metalheads, quietly known amongst one another as pretty sensitive types despite our Tuff Guy chic, to let out anger?! Ten freakin’ four, sergeant. The slow build towards an anthemic chorus, juxtaposed with a riff structure more closely approximating blackened death metal than their usual ‘melo-tech’, is a double-stopped booster to relieve tensions as Hayne's vocals soar with melodic cleans. There’s bassist vindication for monkeys like myself on this one, Brandon punching out the clack in a very Disentomb style as his rhythm-section accompaniment weaves subtlety and sledgehammer in hand.
Teasing us further, Ezra proclaims with that all-knowing hand-circle gesture that “Melbourne… I still want my circle-pit!”. ‘Iridescent’ unsurprisingly does as advertised, bursting forth with explosive brutality that eases off (eases being relative) into a section that is super satiating for the Opeth in all of us, gnarling and gnashing in a fit of wildly expressive soloing across more frets than most of us know what to do with. I can’t help at this time to pump my fist with about five or six others in the room with Ezra; literally everyone else was sitting gobsmacked and mindblown. Honestly? Fair enough!
‘Of Beasts and Worms’ follows, and it’s similarly a statement of both the bands’ immediacy in terms of hyperactive-ADHD stage presence and serious evolution in their already envelope-pushing songwriting. The uptick in boundary-pushing on everything from vocals and drumming to guitars and bass are palpable here, and once again I’m sensorily pushed to near overwhelm by seeing such proggy, techy, melodic death metal pushed to a new extreme. These dudes are best in class when it comes to making prog/melodeath sing with the mathematical precision of civil engineering, and the blasting applause from the crowd indicates this as shared sentiment. That, or y’all just having a fantastic time whilst I waffle about it - either way, goddamn these dudes rock.
“Melbourne! Dude, you guys are having a fucking sick time,” our frontman opines accurately, “this is Proponent For Sentience…” - a momentary hang-back for the exclamation of applause - “…you know what to fucking do!”. All you had to say was the album title, a beloved darling of any diehard fan or casual observer of the band alike.
That you then go and do something as absurdly fantastic as playing ‘Proponent for Sentience I - The Conception’, ‘Proponent for Sentience II - The Algorithm’ and ‘Proponent for Sentience III - The Extermination’ back-to-back has every single person in the room as putty in your hands. An easy play, but hot damn if it ain’t a very well-played move. I could write an entire standalone review on just these three tracks and the absolute density and odyssey-like journey each takes you on, but I’ve written half an Old Testament worth-a-words already. Just know that this progressive metal trilogy felt very much like its’ own entire full-album set, weaving a narrative of intricacy, technicality, operatic backing and stupidly skilled musicianship that had us turned into rabid howler-monkeys.
You know what’s coming. It’s the obvious one. If anything’s going to set aside the prog-nerd fine china for one last boisterous stab at expending what little is left of our ears, oesphagi and well-beaten limbs, any song at all?
Yeah, you fuckin’ bet it’s ‘1.618’.
“Nothing but smiles and having good times. From Perth to Melbourne, you guys know how to fucking bring it! This has been an experience, your hospitality is incredible. You guys have been insane!” Ezra remarks before announcing his thanks to the YMB crew, denying an encore and launching us all through their most punk-rock number yet. This one was tailor-made to get every moustache-twirling pseudo-intellectual such as myself absolutely bowled over by a frantic bull-rush to the pit, technical wizardry put on equal standing with booming, anthemic riffs.
It feels like the perfect after-dinner mint, enough so that there isn’t the usual nasal whinges and '“C’aaarn, caaaarnts!” from the crowd. We stagger out into the night, wide-eyed, bewildered and exhausted but full of death metal and, above all - very, very happy.